


Un Coup d'œil (Firebreather Missing Moments)

by TheFire_in_the_NightSky



Series: Dum Spiro Spero [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bisexual Cullen Rutherford, Drunken Flirting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings Realization, Heavy Angst, Helpful Cole (Dragon Age), Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Language, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Mutual Pining, Past Lavellan/Lavellan, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, imposter syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-06-15 18:29:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15418992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFire_in_the_NightSky/pseuds/TheFire_in_the_NightSky
Summary: Part I:(Chapters 1-3. Takes place months before the events of "Firebreather") A glimpse into why Cullen and Felan's "relationship" ended. Sera and Dorian help Felan pick himself back up in their own little ways, but the feelings Dorian has kept hidden for his closest friend begin clawing their way to the surface.Part II:(Chapter 4. Takes place between Ch. 11 & 12 of "Firebreather") Cole decides to pay Aridhel a visit in the cells because the hurt and pain emanating from him is so strong. He just wants to help the elf, but as Cullen keeps watch over the new prisoner, his similar inner turmoil mixes itself up with Aridhel's.As ideas for backstories or little moments before, or even within, Firebreather flesh themselves out in my head, I'm going to add them here (chapter amount is just a placeholder). Some of these will be scenes I left out of the main story so as not to detract too much from the main plot or the ship of Dorian/Lavellan. Any correlating warnings will be given at the start of each story's section as they're added.





	1. Part I: Of Firsts & Lasts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Open everything around.  
> How I want to say, “Kiss me.”  
> You don't want to ruin anything.  
> Daring and beautiful stones aim at me;  
> you never aim at me.
> 
> I feel soon, you'll wake with imaginary dreams,  
> and wanting to hold this memory.  
> Always wondering who's coming to save...  
> Who's saving me.  
> Cursed with never being seen in your dreams,  
> I'll walk around dead to you,  
> I'll lie around dead to me.  
> Open everything around so all can see  
> how fast you waved goodbye.”

 

_“Come in!”_

 Cullen was just finishing the assembly of his armour upon its stand when the loud, double-rap of knuckles sounded on his door below the loft.  He was really quite exhausted; a throbbing migraine taking up residency in his head for most of the day made him feel something akin to a hangover, as well as a touch irritable now.  Mayhaps the crowd of too many dreary, maudlin thoughts to keep him company the passed weeks without Lavellan and Dorian around to lift his heavy spirits were also what were wearing him thin, he mused.

 As he heard his visitor enter, he quickly called down, “Apologies!  Give me a moment, and I’ll be right down...!” Cullen tried his best to sound like his “usual” stoic self, prepared to put on his best act of benevolence if the news or information this probable-runner brought forced him, dragging feet and all, to an impromptu war table meeting tonight.  He smoothed down a few wrinkles in the lightweight, bone-coloured tunic he wore - particularly glad for the chilled draught that billowed through the hole in his roof, cooling his mildly fevered brow - and tightened the worn leather belt around his waist before descending the ladder to his office.  

 A throat clearing caught his attention enough to have him peer over his shoulder briefly.  Cullen quickly did a double-take, missed a rung, and almost came tumbling down the rest of the way as the elf that sat skew-whiff in the chair at his desk, began giggling behind a gloved hand.

 “Maker, you’re back!”  Cullen couldn’t help the broad, toothy grin that spread across his face or that embarrassing, nervous tick of his that sent his hand awkwardly rubbing the nape of his neck.  He openly gaped a bit more when Felan swung his lean legs from where they were propped over their perch on the arm of the chair to rise and meet Cullen halfway. He gathered the Inquisitor in his arms, letting out a shaky sigh of relief.

 Felan chuckled, nuzzling into the warmth of Cullen’s solid chest.  “Miss me??” He loosened his arms around the man enough to tilt his head up to meet golden, welcoming eyes.  Felan was fresh from a very necessary bath - his aching muscles and wounded arm in need of a decent soaking. Cullen must’ve taken note by the way he fingered the still-damp, silver strands that grazed his cheek.

 “When did you arrive?  I-I apologise I missed it - _you..._ I must’ve been…”

 “Knee-deep in reports, as per usual?” Felan smirked up at Cullen, earning him a bit of a leer, until the man let it falter into his own crooked smile, bringing pleasant focus to his scarred upper lip.

 “...Yes, and if memory serves, I was busy being overwrought with worry a week ago due to _one of those reports_ in particular.”  Backing away from their embrace, Cullen ran his hands down Felan’s sleeved arms until he felt the hidden bulk of a wrapped bandage covering his right forearm.  Felan let Cullen slip off his glove, but looked away when his sleeve was pushed up and over the dressing.

 “Ah, _that,”_ the Inquisitor sighed, “I’m fine. _Now,_ thankfully the assassin’s blade was not _poisoned,_ but the healer said I’m most lucky it didn’t cut too deep as to permanently hinder movement,” Felan flexed and unflexed his fingers as if to drive home his point,  “Look, she patched me up proper once I got here and it’ll barely leave an ugly scar of any sort, not that I mind, of course. A healing potion did most of the work.  You know I’m not frail, Cullen.”

 “No, just lacking in common sense, it seems.  You were caught unawares pilfering a _corpse!”_

 Felan scowled, “And I suppose you’re going to lecture Cassandra, Blackwall, and Dorian for not noticing before I did?  Or do I just get the wrath of our commander?”

 “And you tried using a damned _longsword_ on the man?!”  The humour was gone from Cullen’s booming voice, now.

 “It was lying next to the dead body!  ...Quicker than grabbing for my daggers… _in theory,_ perhaps.  Ohhh, but you should’ve seen the idiot’s face!   _Especially_ when Dorian-”  

 Cullen was pacing away from Felan for a moment before stopping to peer out at the frigid night through an embrasure.   _“I know all about it,”_ he grit out.

 Felan was thankful he’d purposefully omitted the more unsavoury part, where he’d grabbed the claymore, _one-handed,_ strictly for the fact that the stealthed assassin’s blade had cut through a tendon along his forearm, causing him to drop his own dual-blade.  He’d finished the Venatori bastard off through the gullet with his trusty miséricorde boot-dagger while the man was frozen in a fit thanks to a glorious horror-spell from Dorian.

 “Right.   _Well,_ I’ll make a mental note not to be _quite_ so thorough in my reports next time…”

 “Why didn’t Dorian heal you?”  Cullen still refused to face Felan - though perhaps _refuse_ was too much of an assumption for Felan to make, yet.

 “What?”

 Cullen snapped his repeat of the question, “Why didn’t he _heal you?”_

 “Oh.  Ah, he… that is, _he can’t._ Not exactly an area of expertise for him, you see.”

  _“Maker’s breath…”_  Arms crossed against his chest, Cullen finally spun on his heel to face Felan.  “And if _worse_ had happened?”

 Felan took a step towards Cullen.  “I don’t think about worse… I think about _now.”_

 “Perhaps you should _start_ thinking of it -  just how much _worse_ everything would be if we lost you…”

 “Please, Cullen...  What’s this all about, really?  You’re not acting yourself. Is it insomnia again?  You look exhausted...” The elf took a few more tentative steps forward, reaching out for Cullen.

 Felan shouldn’t be fretting over _him._  He didn’t deserve the elf’s coddling.  This wasn’t how things were supposed to be.  In fact, Cullen thought, he should be on the bottom rung of the Inquisitor’s list of worries.  

 “No, not exactly… I... I worry more than is necessary at times, perhaps,”  Cullen took Felan’s hand, pulling him close once more. “But it doesn’t change the fact that I want nothing more in this world than for you to see us through this and come out _whole and_ **_alive_ ** _._ And I would be by your side the entire way… but, I fear…”  he cupped Felan’s face, brushing a thumb along the vallaslin tracing his cheekbone.  “I fear I am not performing my duties to standard. I have nothing to go on insofar as lyrium withdrawal goes… how long the symptoms will last.  It could get far, far worse, for all we know. I cannot stop wondering: what good am I to _anyone_ if I cannot command our forces properly?  Make the decisions that need to be made? ...If… If I cannot protect you?”

 “Cullen, you’re too hard on yourself.  We will get through this, you _are_ getting through this.  And I don’t need _you_ to protect me when I’m out there.”  Then, again, Felan pressed, “...What is bringing this on?  Surely not me getting injured, _this time?”_

 The doubt and conflict in Cullen’s mind and heart were at an all-time high tonight.  Having Felan in front of him, in his arms again, after their longest time apart yet, was not making his search for the right answer or decision any less difficult or painful.

 “You don’t see it, Felan, but you are miles more vulnerable as Inquisitor than you’d like to believe.  For every person saved out there, every cause you’ve helped or made better, there are fifty enemies waiting at your door, ready to end it all… by any means necessary.  And a foggy brain, muddled by… _anything,_ won’t make easier my attentiveness to stand at the ready should any such threat come knocking.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I have this dilapidated castle, then!  Many more fortified doors and high-strung guardsmen to get by, you see.  Not to mention, the positively _menacing_ Lion of Ferelden!”

 Harder to decide, and becoming _harder still._

 Warring emotions he should be paying closer mind to aside, Cullen laughed, and the beginnings of a heated blush stained his cheeks.  Before he could stop himself, he embraced Felan, kissing him at last.

 “How I did miss you…” he whispered against Felan’s mouth.  “Smart-ass…”

 “Oh, you _love it._ Admit you missed that as well?”  Felan threw off his other glove and surged against Cullen, bodily directing him a few feet back and into the side of the desk, decidedly not letting his mouth leave his lover again, at least for tonight.

 Cullen scrambled backwards to sit upon his desk, trying his best to not react to the reports that shifted and floated from its cluttered surface.  Their kiss deepened and seethed with overdue, unspoken emotion and unrealistic expectations, but Cullen groaned despite himself when Felan’s tongue slid, warm and slick, against his.  He bent forward to mouth at the curve of Felan’s neck as slender fingers raked through the wavy tousle of his hair. Felan’s quiet, throaty moans resonated against Cullen’s lips and tongue as he pushed the elf’s leather jerkin open and removed his threadbare scarf.

 His heart was a firetrap, and every move they made was more precarious for Cullen than the last.

 Their… relationship, _if one could call it that,_ Cullen carefully reminded himself… had been bordering on chaste, as of late.  This evening, however, time and distance apart, and the sentimentality that came with it all seemed to coalesce into one arresting, seemingly unbreakable moment for the two of them.  But Cullen’s conscience remained steadfast in its warning call as it rode the waves of his rising pulse.

 He let Felan undo the waist-belt of his tunic, helping him peel the fabric from his upper-body immediately after.  All the while, they slaked their mutual drought of one another.

 But something was wrong.  A sludgy dizziness nipped at Cullen’s awareness; something now vying in his mind to scream loudly ahead of his marred, but insistent conscience: _intuition._

 The first onset of new pain was akin to what Cullen imagined a thin rapier being passed through his middle would feel like… _over and over again._  And then, through his temples and eyes.  Soon, the whole of his nerves were aflame - and not at all like he’d _wanted_ at the moment.  Resting his hands at Felan’s neck and back - more so for balance now than affectionate touches - was more daunting than a thousand push-ups; his lungs suddenly felt like he’d been running in the cold for hours on end, and _that’s_ when the nausea decided to rear it’s blighted, ugly head.

 He staggered forward off the desk, and slumped at Felan’s feet.

  
  
  
  
  
The grey-black haze of Cullen’s vision gradually parted, and he blinked Felan’s face into focus.  He did not know how long he’d been out - didn’t have time to worry about that, frankly. Shame, guilt, and regret instantaneously invaded his mind as he struggled to his knees, then his feet; hands gripping at random for leverage against the worn piece of furniture beside him.  When Felan attempted to help him up, Cullen’s fight or flight instinct unwittingly kicked in.

“You… _No._ Just leave me be, Felan…”  Cullen flinched and brushed Felan off as if he himself was some plagued beast too contagious to touch.   Righting himself well enough against his desk, Cullen hunched over due to the lingering dizziness and vertigo, but was at least happy to have picked his heavy body up off the floor without Felan’s aid.

“What?”  Felan chuckled a little incredulously.  “No, you aren't well. Come, do you think you can climb up to your loft if I help you?  It was hard enough _catching_ you before you blacked out, but I suppose I could muster up some more Herald-ing-strength, and drag you-”

“Stop… _Stop it._ We both know I can handle this, _have_ handled it, plenty as you said…”

Felan’s brows shot up his forehead in mock surprise.  “Oh, _can you?_ I didn’t mean that you should do this alone, you stubborn druffalo!” He moved to grip Cullen under the arms and take his lethargic weight, but again, Felan was brushed aside with cold words.

“Felan…”  Cullen felt the fight in his voice give way - his words coming out more hushed.  “This is what I meant… _this is exactly what I didn’t want…”_ As Cullen winced and doubled over in pain, Felan rushed to hold him up once again.

“If we can’t get you up to bed, perhaps if we could just get you to sit properly in a chair... I’ll fetch you some water-”  But Felan’s suggestions lodged in his throat when Cullen locked eyes with him.

_“You need to go.”_

A laugh struggled up Felan’s throat; a bitter, acidic sounding thing -  knowing if he didn’t try, as fake as it was, the tears would come. _And that just_ **_would not_ ** _do right now._

He cleared his throat to cover a sniffle and persevered. “Oh, shut it.  C’mon.”

Felan’s emotional denial was just another splinter of glass lodging its way into Cullen’s heart.  “I’m serious, Felan. Just… _go, please._ You deserve so, _so much_ better… better than I can give in this state,”  Cullen gestured to his steadily flagging form with self-deprecation.  “Please, just think of yourself…”

Finally, the elf backed away.  Cullen loathed himself for being thankful of it.

“No… No!   _Don’t you say that._  Don’t you spew this horseshit about me needing _‘better!’_ Especially not when you clearly need _me!”_ Pulling his hair back with an angry fistful, Felan turned and walked further from Cullen, shaking his head in frustration.   “ ...Fuck… _fuck,_ I’m sorry, Cullen.  I…”

“I shouldn’t _need_ you!”  Cullen’s voice cracked,  “I shouldn’t need anyone.  I am a liability to this cause, and I won’t have you suffer for my inabilities.”

With that, Felan’s fist crashed into the side of the nearby bookcase - his knuckles splitting upon leaving four indentations in evidence of his irritation. _“Get off your fucking cross, Cullen!!_  Stop torturing yourself and justifying it with your past wrongs!  And if you don’t want to admit to needing me as more than just the bloody _Inquisitor_ or _Herald,_ then know this:   _I need you.”_

“Why?   _Just look at me, Felan!_  Maker, what good am I to you like this?!”

“Stop it!”  Felan tasted the warm salt spill of quiet, errant tears that caught along the corners of his mouth.   _Ah, there they were._ He internally chastised himself, knowing full well how futile it’d be… how fucking futile this whole argument was.   _“Stop it…_ Just… fucking stop talking!  Don’t I have a say in this??”  He wanted Cullen to answer as much as he _didn’t._

As Felan approached, Cullen regrettably let him get too close before he threw a hand up between them.  Even if it wasn’t something he thought he wanted right now, Cullen knew that Felan needed someone he didn’t have to play protector or sick-nurse for.  The elf had quite enough of that on his plate well before his not-so-serendipitous joining with the Inquisition’s current incarnation, from what little Felan had divulged to him in private.

“We cannot do this anymore, Felan.  I am afraid I’m of no pleasant company for anyone, currently.  Please, try to understand…”

Cullen dragged himself to sitting upright and pulled his tunic back over his head, even though he swayed, and the muscles in his shoulders and neck protested the sudden movement.  His gaze flicked back towards his leader, his saviour, his _… former lover,_ and the metaphorical liminal space between them that was growing all the more damnably _tangible._ Cullen felt the most alien,  unbearable pain yet when he saw the fracturing of his heart mirrored in those glacial eyes.

“...You can’t decide that…”

Cullen told himself they weren’t soundlessly weeping; pride and arrogance an all-too powerful dam against unshed tears.

Told himself that this wasn’t an end, even as he said the words, _“I have,”_ and, “I haven’t the current strength for matters of the _heart…”_

...Ignored the knife in his gut when he’d heard the broken reply of, “Perhaps I’ve enough for the **both** of us.  If you would’ve just _let me…”_

Cullen lied when he assured his sorrows it wasn’t their last kiss as Felan rushed him to crush their lips together, soft and _rough,_ and so very desperate.  And _Maker, he felt like he was cleaved in two._

“I… I should go…”  Felan let his fingers fall from Cullen’s stubbled jaw and snatched up his gloves from their respected places amongst the desk and floor.

Cullen ignored the finality in that statement.

And he lied, he lied, _he lied_ to his aching mind and heart some more when he watched silver hair dance through the snow-peppered breeze of his open office door for perhaps the last time.  The last time that was unequivocally _theirs._

 

 

 

> _“I won't cry when the silver lining shows._
> 
> _But you're right,_
> 
> _You understand_
> 
> _You ride with both hands_
> 
> _Worrying is the breathing that you need_
> 
> _So there won't be far to fall_
> 
> _You mustn't climb tall_
> 
> _Wake me up_
> 
> _Only nightmares take me in_
> 
> _Through these walls, the winter bites,_
> 
> _A draught from all sides_
> 
> _Of course you can_
> 
> _There are diamonds in demand_
> 
> _It's a shame, and as you know_
> 
> _The stain will not go”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felan really needs a hug, and possibly a drink or ten. My poor bb<3
> 
> Comments & kudos appreciated!
> 
> Come find me @thefire-in-the-nightsky on tumblr :)
> 
> *Lyrics in beginning notes from "Moments Over Exaggerate" by Poison the Well  
> **Lyrics at the end from Mew's "White Lips Kissed"


	2. Part I: Three Men Hanging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen contemplates his decision. Felan gets those much-needed drinks, but his friends offer support of a different kind. And Felan's regrets at being the Inquisitor, as well as the general impostor syndrome he's suffered much of his life, begin to surge to the surface. And Dorian? Dorian has... **feelings**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me are you free,  
> In word or thought or deed?  
> Tell me are you free,  
> While the gallows stand?
> 
> And bullets lance the bravest lungs...  
> Will I fold my hands, or hold my tongue?
> 
> Or let the flames lick at my feet,  
> Or breathe in fire and know I'm free?  
> Flames will rise and devour me.  
> Oh, to breathe in fire, and know I'm free.”

Felan is dreadfully aware of the look he gets from a patrolling guard - ready to shoot daggers with one glare if the woman doesn’t soon turn the other cheek before he makes his way off the battlements.  His heart sinks further than he thought possible once he realises which exit he’d blindly chosen to leave Cullen’s office from. Maybe a longer walk than he intended would do him some good. Slipping on his gloves and holding the soft leather of his vest closed, Felan huffs a billow of steam from his lips and carefully makes his way down the stone steps to the already snow-smooth courtyard below.  
  
Picking his way passed more precarious, suspiciously icy-looking spots along his path, the Inquisitor decides to warm his bones and numb his mind with a lengthy visit to the tavern.  There is positively no way he’ll be sleeping any time soon this evening, frequent insomnia aside.   
  
He doesn’t much want to repeat this night within dreams _or_ nightmares, either.  Diving headlong into his cups, it is then.   _That’ll bloody do just fine._

  
  


******

  
  


Softened, time-worn fabric shifts over Cullen’s knuckles, the frayed edges tickling the skin of his forehead where he’s bunched the scarf in his fist.  He raises his bowed head from his hand, whispering one last repeat of, _“Forgive me,”_ into the crimson material before lifting himself off the floor in staggered movements.  He needs to stop this, needs to calm down. And Felan doesn’t need his scarf returned to him with the invisible stain of Cullen’s foolish, fruitless tears.  Cullen tells himself he has no right to grieve over the loss of something he’d solely prompted a goodbye to, anyway.  
  
Cullen’s chair creaks with the heavy, upward pull of his body until he stands as straight as he’s able.  For now, he tosses the scarf in a frequented drawer, and the blunt sound the wood makes as he slams it shut pierces through his eyes towards the back of his skull.  The pitcher of water he has upstairs is most likely chilled enough from the intrusive elements to be pleasant to his current state, if he can just drag himself back up to the loft...  Cullen shuffles toward the ladder, but stops not even half the distance there when an imaginary song sings to him. 

Clean, and cool, and pure.

 

_ Tastes  _ like snow smells.

 

_ Feels  _ like the afterglow of our fall together.

 

As  _ blue  _ as the ring around  _ those irises when... _

 

**_That fucking box…!_ **

Anger and hatred revitalising him, Cullen quickly turns back to his desk and retrieves the smooth wooden box from his mostly-forgotten bottom drawer.  For the shortest moment, he lets the fingers of one hand ghost across the burnt etchings of a flaming sword upon the lid. Seconds is all it takes for the disgust and self-loathing to refill his gut, sour and acrid on the back of his tongue; and then, box in tow, Cullen is stalking through the same door Felan stormed out of not long ago.    
  
The cold air that greets his too-hot skin is an undeserved mercy.    
  
“You there!” he calls to the nearby guard.

Her eyes are wide in the torchlight.  Earlier, she must’ve overheard whatever the wind hadn’t muffled.

“Y-yes, Commander?”

“You're relieved of your post for the night.  And let the others know I’m not to be disturbed until the morning or an  _ emergency.” _

She blinks up at him, seemingly lost for words.  Cullen feels his lip curl into a snarl without his permission.   _ “Understood?”  _ he bellows.

The young guard’s fidgeting hands shoot to clasp at her lower back as she gives a quick and awkward bow; her too-big helm knocking forward against the bridge of her nose as she delivers a rushed, “Aye! Understood, sir!” and pushes it back upon her crown before hurrying through Cullen’s office to reach the other side of the ramparts.

Large, downy flakes of snow stick to Cullen’s hair, melting upon his flesh and eyelashes while he approaches the wall of the parapet overlooking the mountainside.  Under his right arm, the box he holds grows heavier by the minute.

Cullen sets his burden upon the low edge of the wall, opening the lid to give the lyrium philter - and the damnable assortment of tools to mix and take the cursed substance - a last once-over.  He stares into the worn effigy of Andraste on the inside of the lid, then closes his eyes, taking in the very real smell of new snowfall and the precipice of winter in the Frostbacks.

“Andraste, preserve me...” he breaths at last, letting his eyes drift open to face the darkened landscape of whipping white across crags and peaks of jagged black before him.

As Cullen closes the kit, he feels a calm wash over him that’s distantly familiar.  The edges are still tinged in anxiety and despair, but his headspace goes momentarily crystal in the same way it always had before a battle.  With it, comes the trickle of heavy emotion he’d tried to push down to forgotten recesses within his subconscious; and soon, it isn’t the icy gusts of mountain air causing tears to well up.

“I will  _ endure.”   _ The box plummets from his shaky grip into the wintry abyss below with a final, steeling exhale.

Cullen doesn’t let his sight linger on the falling shape, he instead walks back towards his office immediately.  He stops himself with an unsteady palm upon the dry, splintery wood of his door; forehead meeting his hand soon after.  The beat of his heart quickens throughout his entire being; Cullen’s body and mind deriding the complicated and difficult decisions he’s made tonight.  Gritting his teeth through an uproar of pain, Cullen places a tremulous hand on the handle of the door, and lets the full weight of his body propel him forward into the room.

Under his breath he murmurs, choked and quiet,  _ “I should have loved you well…  It wasn’t enough.  _ **_Please_ ** _ , forgive me.” _

  
  


******

 

The Herald’s Rest is both busy and quiet enough this night, that Felan feels as though he can blend into the background without anyone bothering him for idle natter or drinking and card games of the usual sort.  Once finished downing his second full drink of whisky, the accidental sharp clack of his cup against the table alerts a few nearby patrons, but thankfully, not to a distracting degree.

_ Or, so he thought. _

Eyes downcast, Felan rises from his bench, but is quickly -  _ harshly - _ pushed back by a pale, freckled hand against his sternum.

“Well, you’re here.”

“I am…”

“No!  I mean, you’re…  _ here,”   _ With a sour face, Sera gestures to Felan’s lonesome table tucked away where the faintest flicker of warm braziers can reach.  __ “Like… all grumbly and lonely, and… hidey.  I been watching, y’know.”

_“Hidey?_ I’m not hiding.  Come on, move.  I need another drink.  If you want to join me, join me.  If not, then-”

“Wait!  First, what’s got your Heralding-breeches in a bunch?” 

Felan’s gaze stretches down to the main level of the tavern below.  He watches briefly as a pair of soldiers head in towards the bar; gloved hands brushing a glittery dusting of snow from the folds and crevices of their armour as Cabot greets them in what Felan can only assume is a manner only  _ slightly  _ milder than the frigid bluster they’d come in from.  He thinks he recognises one of the soldiers as the young woman stood guard near Cullen’s office earlier tonight.

“I really don’t want to go on about it right now, Sera.”  He doesn’t mean the irritated roughness with which he says those words, he really doesn’t.  But he  _ really does _ need another drink…  Felan moves to walk passed Sera, but she sidesteps with him.  

“The fuck I’m lettin’ you get sloshed while yer all… dreary-bleary!  Might not be hiding, but you are  _ hiding somethin’. _  Come on!”

The girl really was unnaturally strong when she wanted to be.  Before Felan can sputter a refusal, Sera drags him by the arm like a scolded child towards her pillow fortress of a room.  As she slams the door shut, he ducks beneath an ill-placed birdcage to take a seat in front of the bow window. Felan smirks when he takes note of the animal skull within the hanging cage - wildflowers for eyes.  But, his admiration for Sera’s endearing eccentricities in decor are short-lived when she turns on him, snub-nose scrunched up in a demanding scowl.

_ “Alright. _  Out with it.  Why’re you so shitty tonight, Ickle?”

Felan sighs, “It’s nothing, really, Sera, I-” 

“Nothing?!  You forget I know you.  And right now, yer not  _ you.   _ I mean, you are, just more ‘someone took a crap in my tea,’  _ you.” _

Once Sera finishes her mini-rant, Felan cocks an eyebrow at her in bemusement.  _  “Thanks...  _  Fiiine… Actually, take a wild guess…”

“Piss!  If I wanted to play a friggin’  _ game  _ I would be downstairs with the Chargers!”

Felan swallows a retort.  “...Cullen and I…” They what?  He honestly doesn’t know what to finish that statement with.  Sera’s face softens and she drifts over, bird-like. She nestles next to Felan, letting him gather his thoughts up in a neat enough package to finally toss from his tongue.  As she quietly brings her feet up on the window seat, she tosses a bright blue and gold rectangular pillow Felan’s way; he smiles and stuffs it behind him to lean against. “...It’s… it’s, fuck... whatever we were, is over with.”  He exhales so hard after, that it almost hurt. Well, that was something resembling a sentence, and good enough for Sera.

“Can't even  _ do anything _ to get back at ‘im, yeah?  I can get bees, but you’ll say no, right?  ‘Coz  _ someone’s  _ always gotta be the good guy...” 

Felan just glares at her in answer.

“Pfff…  _ alright.   _ Talk?”  Sera gives Felan an awkward, but hopeful, lopsided grin.

He feels his mouth go gummy with the start of tears as his throat tightens.  Thankfully, Sera lets him cry in silence for a moment, even though he can practically feel her anger stewing in his honour.  Felan uses his thumbs to wipe beneath his eyes, noticing the black smudges of kohl on his gloves as he returns his hands to his lap.  He must look quite the sight. Lovely.

_ “Fuck…”   _ sniffling in effort to compose himself, Felan turns to face Sera again, still expecting an earful for his decision to get…  _ entangled  _ with his commander in the first place back at Haven.

_ Haven.   _ Felan peers out the windows and can't stop the chill, entirely unrelated to the temperature, that creeps over his back while he eyes the little pockets of snow catching in the corners of the glass panes.

Sera’s voice reels him back from the pitfall of those harrowing memories.

“Right, well… you'll fix it, yeah?  The two of you… Stupid not to. But you both do stupid things.  ...Ol’ jackboot needs someone over _ ‘im _ for once,”  she lets out a small snicker, “Did Cull some good,  _ I think.   _ Seemed… lighter?  Yeah. More like real-people with you on ‘is arm.  Secret or not. Less like he had a stick up ‘is arse,  _ that’s  _ for sure.  Shite, I  _ really  _ want to make a joke ‘bout that.  Ugh. So, who was the big idiot, then anyway?”

A shaky breath stutters in Felan’s chest.  “Both of us, if I’m being truthful. I don't think…”  He laughs in pity of himself as the tears flow freely again.  The way the other elf’s face falls at the crumbling sight of him makes Felan feel no better.  “Just, trust me when I say this isn't something that can be fixed with words, if at all. Not to him, and certainly not right now.  I…  _ knew _ what I was getting myself into from the start, and maybe it  _ was  _ stupid of me, but…”  

He'd barely said anything, yet already, Felan is so damn tired of talking about his feelings on the matter.  Talking things out, wasn't that supposed to make one feel less heavy, more balanced? All Felan feels is the blinding realness of the situation with each word he or Sera speaks.  He groans and rests his face in his hands, the cushion of his leather-gloved-palms pressing into the damp of his eyes.

“Look, you keep on your Inquizzy way, and maybe you find another good thing? Or a  _ really _ good thing?   _ You  _ do a lot of  _ good, _ annnd… good things come to… those and… uh, waiting and all that business.  I don’t like this ‘love’ stuff. Too twisty-uppy and then someone gets hurt, no thanks.  ...Better stop talkin’ ‘bout  _ hurt  _ before Creepy comes poppin’ out of my teakettle or some shite...”

Sera elbows Felan to get his attention.  Despite feeling a little better, he can’t bring himself to show much of the flicker of a smile that remained internal from Sera’s odd reassurances.  Leftover tears still wet his eyelashes and the bridge of his nose when he raises his head.

Suddenly, skinny arms encircle Felan’s shoulders, almost knocking him to the side.  He hangs onto Sera’s bicep with one hand, silently thanking her.

“I won't get too sappy, but… you're a good friend, Sera.”

Sera turns her head towards the side of Felan’s face, chin digging into his boney shoulder for a few seconds.

“No,  _ nope.  Ruined it.”  _

Felan chuckles finally as she lets him go.  “I wish I could tell you more right now.  _ Or why.   _ Fuck, I don't even know what's worse… that it's not likely fixable, or that… I bloody understand  _ why  _ Cullen chose…  _ this.”   _

_ “ _ Frig.  You were really tits over arse for ‘im, eh?”

Felan chews the inside of his cheek, not in delay of answering, but in effort to curb any further melodramatic emotion on the subject.

“...No.  But, I could have been,” He stands, resting his hand on the younger elf’s pale shoulder.  A smile, almost wistful graces his face. “Alright, enough of my moping. I think I'll let you be now.  Have a drink or five for me? I'm going to head over to the library, see if Dorian has any wine I can steal away with to my chambers.  And you weren’t wrong earlier… getting shitty with gutrot or hard liquor right now probably isn't my safest bet, but I need  _ something.”   _ He smirked.

“I know, I know.  And what, you mean wine  _ he  _ stole?  From  _ you... _ technically?”

“Well… okay, you're right.  Again. Even though I think it’s the whole of the Inquisition’s?   _ Anyway,  _ it saves  _ me  _ a trip to the cellars…”

“Ah.   _ Right,”   _ Shuddering, Sera stands to walk Felan to her door. “Fuckin’ eerie,  _ that.” _

_ “Exactly.” _

As they leave Sera’s room to head back out into the tavern, Felan pauses, voice low, “And… I know I don’t have to ask you to keep this quiet still, but… please don’t tell Varric yet, either.  I’m content with letting him figure it out on his own. Or weaseling it out of Cullen or me another time.”

“Ughh… yeah, yeah… Cross my heart and all that rubbish.”

Making their way towards the stairs leading to the main floor, the sounds around them begin to carry a little fuller throughout the old wooden beams and floorboards, and Felan is glad to be leaving soon enough.  He just wants to be alone now, and truthfully, his physical and mental energy reserves are pretty depleted. Before descending the stairs, Felan’s eyes pick up unexpected movement in his periphery, then a large-brimmed hat -  _ Cole. _  Apparently Sera didn’t miss the skulking form, either - practically snarling at the sight of him.

The spirit-like boy approaches; a bundle of fidgety nerves, though the calm façade he wears belies the distress in the words he rushes out at Felan.

“He’s sorry, but knows it doesn’t matter.  Even still, he hopes for forgiveness. The little bottle made him shake, but he broke the chains.   _ You  _ quieted the noise...   _ His hurt is your hurt.”  _  The last sentence is spoken like an epiphany.  

“Cole…?” 

“Oh, piss!  Balls!  _ I knew it!!   _ **Go. Awayyy,** Creepy!  C’mon, Ickle…” Sera goes to grab Felan’s arm, but he takes a step towards Cole instead.

“Wait… you can go on, I’ll… I’ll be alright.   _ Really.” _

Sera shrugs her arms at her sides in exasperation, “Whatever!  Dunno why you want it friggin’ messing ‘round in your head like that.”  Hackles raised, she stomps down the stairs after receiving one last pointed look from Felan.

Felan ushers Cole behind a wooden pillar, though they don’t have the privacy he wishes for, for this kind of discussion.

“Cole, whatever you think you can do, just… don’t right now, alright?  And keep your voice down,  _ please.” _

“Snow, falling, drifting.  Reminds me of him when-”

_ “I said don’t!”  _ Felan hisses.  “Look, I know you want to help, but this… you should know,  _ see -  _ whatever it is you  _ do… _ Understand that it is a lot more complicated than what you're hearing in our minds.  You can’t…  _ force  _ something to stop hurting and be  _ better, _ Cole.  Sometimes putting aside the hurt causes  _ more  _ hurt in the long run, alright?”

Cole continues to wring his hands, but nods in acknowledgement, anyway.  Felan wishes the boy  _ could  _ pluck out the hurt without seeping into his thoughts or Cullen’s, but Felan knows that’s unfortunately unrealistic.  If Cole wants to help Cullen, that’s fine with him; the man needs it more than Felan in a multitude of different ways, besides.  And Felan needs to move forward; for the Inquisition, and the whole of Thedas, needs _ him.  _  He turns to take his leave until Cole lightly touches his shoulder.  Felan’s fists tighten at his sides, the leather creaking in his hands.   He whirls around, ready to let out another grumble. 

The shadowed look on Cole’s pallid face beneath that overly large hat is more unreadable than usual.

“He… waits and  _ aches  _ for you.  I don’t understand.  It’s not a normal hurt.  It frightens him that it  _ will. _  He burns, brilliant so you’ll see him shine.  Doesn’t hope for more... Hoping hurts.  _ You  _ want to breathe in fire, but fear the smother of smoke.”

Confusion spreads across Felan’s face for a moment before he snaps, “Listen to me, Cole, you can tell Cullen exactly what I feel if you think it’ll help, _ but I’m done with this nonsense tonight!” _

Cole raises his head to meet Felan’s eyes.  “No,” He shakes his head, “Not Cullen.”

Felan scoffs,  _ “Enough of this.  _  I really need to get out of here...”  While walking away, Felan calls over his shoulder, “And by the Void,  _ don’t  _ follow me!”  But instead of Cole, it is the eyes of the people  _ \- his people -  _ within the tavern that pursue Felan’s retreating form out the door and back into the night; and the unease of  _ that  _ feels far worse.

  
  


******

  
  


The occasional wind gusts howling and whistling over the rookery above keep breaking Dorian’s concentration.  Setting his quill aside in a huff, he glowers over towards the railing, watching the errant snowflakes that shift and float, feather-like, into nothingness on their way down through the rotunda.   _ Could be worse,  _ he thinks.  He imagines, then grimaces, at the prospect of the fetid stench of sun-heated bird shit, come Ferventis.  Then again, he’d be struck dumb if this blighted mountain saw  _ real  _ seasons.

Speaking of, it was fucking cold and Dorian isn’t afraid to admit he doesn’t have the thick skin of Southerners, and frankly, he was ready to move his research to the warmth of his own room.  There are too many sporadic torches and candles in the library to keep burning bright enough to see properly, as well. Dorian gives a resigned sigh, and gathers up his notes, shuffling them back into some semblance of order.  He’s in the middle of rolling up a couple old scrolls together when he hears the shambling scuff of wet dirt under boot heels coming up the stone stairs behind him.

When Dorian turns, he’s greeted with the sight of the Inquisitor, shivering and hugging himself tight, hands held beneath his arms.  As Felan staggers into the waning torchlight, Dorian sees a crust of melting snow along his shoulders and tucked into wet strands of hair like a falling crown of ice.  Something about his eyes holds a heaviness Dorian can’t immediately put a finger on. 

Felan looks over at him, and to put it bluntly, he looks as though he’s been  _ trying  _ to catch his death out in the growing storm.  A sympathetic chill catches Dorian, and he subconsciously wraps his robe a little tighter.

“...Hi.” Felan whispers, voice a bit hoarse.

Dorian sucks in a breath.  “You’re soaked to the bone, man!”

“No, not quite, I don’t think.”

“Well, I very much disagree, by the looks of you.  Frollicking in the snow, were we?  _ It is  _ lovely out, I’m sure.”

Felan says nothing, and like a walking corpse, he stumbles into the mage, arms going under Dorian’s to grab tight to his shoulders.  On instinct, Dorian holds him closer.

With soft words in his friend’s ear, Dorian gently tries to quiet the sobs that begin stirring up from Felan’s chest.  “Fae… Sh-sh-shh… What’s wrong, hm?  _ What’s happened??”   _

Felan had silently wept for a period all too brief after his miraculous reemergence from the fall of Haven.  He and Cullen’s entwined moroseness (and misplaced self-blame for the chaotic end to their little village) seeing both men through the worst of their inner turmoil.  At least, Dorian imagined it so, despite the suspicious rumours he’d heard, hushed behind the hands of Inquisition followers reluctant to see a lowly Dalish elf as their saviour; or angry a former Templar would let said elf take in a hefty group of mages as equals... let alone one of  _ Tevinter persuasion. _

Needless to say, this is  _ not  _ the same break in spirit Dorian witnessed in Felan back then.  He nearly fails at quieting the covetous rage that builds inside the the chained organ behind his sternum.  Best not to make assumptions, lest the tendrils of Envy twist ‘round his ankles. Felan needs  _ a friend.   _ And Dorian is terribly good at that, at least.

Felan breaths heavy against Dorian’s shoulder, shifting his body to disentangle himself.  Dorian stops him short, directing them both towards the adjacent nook, keeping their close contact.  His jaw clenches with the fleeting wonder of who the comforting, unbroken contact is for more - he or Felan.  

_ “I wish I never let them talk me into going to that fucking temple,”  _ Felan’s voice breaks through the air; small, and rasped, and hurt.  “They  _ let me go,  _ only to beg me back just to do their bidding.  And  _ what for?!   _ Spy on something I had no business in and… I just wish I could  _ go back.   _ I just want to go back  _ home…”   _ Covering his eyes with the anchor-marked hand, Felan is seemingly overcome with more soul-wracking emotion.  He can’t see them, but Dorian knows the tears are back by the shake of the Inquisitor’s shoulders and the intermittent hitch in his breathing.

Dorian doesn’t know what to do or say.  Not his strong-suit, comfort. He’d have to write “home” to thank his congenial parents for that one.  His only self-taught comforts in dire times, the bottom of a bottle or some handsome acquaintance’s bed for however long one of them deemed necessary.  Well, he also has his wit, of course.

“My…  **Look.at.us.**  Kindred spirits!  Welcome to full-fledged pariahhood, yes?  Shall we celebrate?”  _ Oh, you bloody, bloody idiot.  That’ll surely make him feel better!  Yes, it’s marvelous being a shunned outsider! _

Well, Felan doesn’t exactly take the bait, but the sombre little laugh he lets slip as he drops his hand from his face is encouraging.  Dorian sees it as a nibble.

Felan meets his eyes, “Actually, I could use some wine… Sera cut me off back at the Rest.  Any bottles around to spare?”

“Yes, well… you  _ do  _ smell as though you’ve already partaken in quite a bit of  _ aqua vitae,  _ but… Hm, there was a saying I’d never been particularly fond of hearing: ‘Do as I say, not as I do,’ all that nonsense.  So, how about I strike you a deal?” 

A few more heartbreaking sniffles, and Felan is smirking back at Dorian; that familiar crystalline spark in his eyes making a notable effort in breaking through the teary glassiness.  Gentlemanly - because,  _ yes, he is still a gentleman -  _ Dorian retrieves a handkerchief from his robes, and gifts it to Felan to blot his ruddy face.  

“Uh, th-thank you, Dorian.  So,  _ name it.   _ What’s this deal you have in mind, hm?”

Dorian wants to stomp his foot or punch something like an angry teenager when he feels his heart warm at the sight of his dear friend wiping away the translucent black streaks of kohl from his face.  Maker, his own eyes must be glittery and glazed with adoration. Dorian had never felt a bigger fool in perhaps all his thirty years of life, than he did the day he’d realised he was mooning over the Herald, the leader of their motley forces.  __ Just as he was doing now.

_ Ah, but the heart was a terrible, fickle thing, was it not? _

 

> _ As I run, I wave to everyone _
> 
> _ To each and every beholder _
> 
> _ And I so wanna be grateful, _
> 
> _ But nothing keeps me _
> 
> _ So I’m just coming home _
> 
> _ Pang in my chest _
> 
> _ Promised you I'd fix this _
> 
> _ But I’m almost out _
> 
> _...Carry me to safety _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be very Dorian/Felan heavy! [I'm excited]
> 
> Comments and kudos appreciated!
> 
> Come find me @thefire-in-the-nightsky on tumblr or @nauka_o_ogniuXV on Twitter! :D
> 
> *Lyrics at beginning notes from "Firebreather" by Thrice  
> **Lyric excerpt at end of chapter taken from "Carry Me to Safety" by Mew


	3. Pt. I: Passions from a Common Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's not your fault,  
> They pushed you too far  
> And all of your thoughts  
> Came apart within so  
> They pushed you too hard,  
> They pushed you too far  
> Fate comes, and fate heals all the worst of our debts  
> There's a broken man inside"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Karasu888 for inspiring me to even write full-on fic for my Lavellan and Dorian because of their own wonderful Pavellan stories. Thank you so much for sticking with me through this!!!

Lungs near-heaving and head full-on throbbing, Cullen tries to calm himself and still his restless legs.  The distraction of shadows dancing on the wall has tired, and soon, the candles will snuff themselves out.  Cullen takes to staring at his ceiling, trying to discern the knots in the wood in the dark. His eyes play tricks on him; the split beams seeming to inch towards him, then bow away again.  Perhaps his mind is in on the deception, too.

Cullen feels exhaustion will pull him under well before true sleep does.  That is how it usually goes, and he doesn’t see why things should be any different for him tonight.

He tosses in place a few more times before finally settling on his right side, flipping his pillow before doing so.  There are no feverish chills tonight, but that bone-deep ache in his joints visits him like an old friend, quicker carried to the shores of his sickness on the winds of each snowfall they’ve had thus far.  An old ally to mock and remind him of times gone past and the mistakes buried there.

Snow slips from the dry, rust-coloured leaves peeking in through the hole in Cullen’s roof, gathering in a little pile by the side of his bed.  In a dream-like state, Cullen eyes the melted, rough edges that frame the smooth dusting of white upon his floor. He closes his eyes to a memory.

 

_Felan’s tattooed back against his muscled chest.  Body heat their only protection from the freeze of the room.  Warm skin beneath his fingers and mouth._

 

 _“Cullen… Cullen,_ look _!”_

 

_Peering over Felan’s shoulder, resting his stubbled chin there as they slow their movements._

 

_“Our first snow here.” he whispers in answer._

 

_The shower of white in a soft beam of morning sunlight cascading as if time was winding down around them._

 

_“Shit, but your room!  You seem to have missed the point.” Felan’s laugh rumbling against him._

 

_Hugging Felan’s body closer as their hips resume their slow rock._

 

 _“I might be_ mildly _distracted.  I don’t mind, it… reminds me of_ **_you_ ** _…”_

 

_Smiles hidden in a kiss._

 

Cullen tightens his fist in the sheets as anger surges through him.  He watches the snow a little longer as unwieldy emotions retake him. They hadn’t shared a bed overnight often, but as of now, the right side of the mattress feels terribly empty, and somehow, his room suddenly more claustrophobic than usual.  The fingers of one hand scramble across the sheets for the other pillow, and like a frightened child, he clutches it to him. He tries for repeated recitation of verses from the Chant of Light in his head to lull him.

Some time later, Cullen’s mind finally  gives way to sleep; imagination mingling in with the shapes of memory that resemble a slumbering lover’s back, hair white like cold moonlight, and his own fingers tracing the red swirls of vallaslin down a curved spine.

  


******

  


Dorian knows his smile is wicked, though his intent truly _is_ virtuous.  “Well, it’s simple, really.  We get you to the warmth of my room, change your clothing, let me dry it, _because you are soaked,_ despite your thoughts on the contrary, then you’ll get your _wine._  Perhaps talk out what’s got you so upset, yes?  What do you say, _Inquisitor?_ Do we have a deal?”

Ah, the blush that crept over those tattooed cheekbones was worth the bit of tease.

“Um, I guess we do, but… Dorian, how are you going to dry my things, exactly?  And, more importantly, what am I supposed to wear in the meantime?! Why do I feel like this is all just a ruse to get me naked?”

Biting back a more mischievous grin, Dorian clicks his tongue,  “Tsk, tsk, tsk. My dear friend! You’ll borrow something of _mine_ for the time being - don’t get _too_ excited over the privilege, now - and then I’ve got just the spell that’ll take the wet chill from your things in the blink of an eye.  Perhaps let your leathers dry themselves out, though... Don’t want to stiffen up, I’m sure.”

“Oh no?”  Felan’s playful tone shocks Dorian a little speechless, but he chalks it up to whatever the elf had already drank back at the tavern, and his _hopefully_ brightening spirit.  He can’t let himself go a bit weak in the knees over familiar flirtations _now._ Dorian was constantly _dishing it out,_ he could certainly take a bit of his own medicine tonight.  

Dorian leads them out of the library and along the mercifully short distance to his chamber.  They both still curse the snow that cakes their boots as they trudge through it, all the same.  

“Wonderfully _warm_ welcome-back-home, isn’t it?!” Dorian calls over his shoulder to Felan.  The snow almost makes him long to be immediately back out, traipsing around Maker-knows-where with the Inquisitor.   _Almost._

Upon opening the door, both men stomp the snow from their feet and Dorian immediately lights the two enchanted braziers at opposite corners of his room.  Dorian tosses the scrolls and papers he’d had hidden from the elements beneath his robe onto his desk, scoffing at the snow-wet edges of a few sheets of parchment.   He begins unbuckling the straps of his snow-sprinkled robe, shaking it out, and gestures for Felan to do the same with his own clothing as he walks to a long dresser at the far wall.  After minimal rifling, Dorian extracts a soft, long-sleeved tunic of Vyrantium samite and is about to walk it over to Felan, when he pauses upon turning back around.

The elf has his back to Dorian, wiping his leather jerkin dry with his own tunic.  Dorian sighs internally at the sight… _Southerners._ Felan is stripped down to his… very well-fitting woolen breeches, and while Dorian wants his guest comfortable, he’s now just hoping the man’s long vest kept his pants dry enough so he can keep them _on._ Dorian notices the fresh bandage wrapping Felan’s right forearm and hates himself for not having been able to prevent _or at least mend_ the wound.  Dorian’s knowledge of the healing arts could barely seal a papercut.    

His eyes trace the peculiar, but enticing tattoos - like the flow of calligraphy - that stretch across Felan’s upper back from the nape of his neck; and down his biceps to where the lines more so resemble the ink on his face, with the addition of several small dots.  Dorian had always been a little curious; considered the glimpses of vallaslin he was able to see more plainly above the peak of a collar or through the loosened laces of a shirt. Alright, and perhaps, on more than one occasion, his mind had wandered to where it all lead, _how far down it went._  Well!  He certainly has his answer now, does he not?  Time to stop gaping like a perverted fool.

But _sweet Andraste,_ the way those vine-like lines move across lithe muscle as Felan rolls his shoulders…  

Dorian absolutely _does not_ imagine his lips grazing those tattoos…  He gnaws the inside of his cheek, and then... _Felan is looking over one of those toned, tattooed shoulders._

Brilliant.

This is it.  This is how Dorian is going to get his arse booted from the Inquisition and Skyhold in all but a night.  He grasps for a recovery.

“Here you are,” Dorian diverts his gaze as un-awkwardly as possible while handing over the tunic, “Nothing terribly fancy but, it’ll do.”

Felan fingers the gold threading at the hemlines, a small smile curving his full lips.  “Oh, stop pretending, Dorian.”

Dorian’s mouth goes dry as he fumbles for words.  “I-I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sure _everything_ you own is ‘fancy’ to someone like _me.”_ Felan’s smile widens before he pulls the shirt over his head.

 _Oh._ Well, that’s… alright, then.  Dorian is glad he wasn’t found out, and that he’ll be continuing his tenure with the Inquisition, pride intact.

“Nonsense.  With company the likes of Vivienne, Josephine, and myself, your fashion sense has improved markedly!” Dorian smirks.  Felan now dressed, hands over his clothing to Dorian, and the mage takes to setting them over the back of his large sitting chair, a glowing heat ready to emanate from his hands to dry the cloth.  “I know, I tease you too much, I apologise. Did you need anything more? Or are you comfortable now? You can set your boots near one of the braziers, if you’d like.”

“Where do you keep the bottles stashed?” Felan asks, a bit impatiently, but there’s still a playfulness there.

“Ah.  Now, I'm not doing this in good conscience, just so we're clear, but, ‘drinking to forget’ was always one of my lesser talents, I suppose.”

That fiery glimmer in Felan’s eyes sparks to life once more.  “And we had a _deal,_ mm?”  He saunters over towards the brazier closest to Dorian, pausing to briefly study his work, then continues on to remove his boots and socks.

“Of course!  ...Alright, that should do it.”  Dorian smooths out any wrinkles he eyes in Felan’s now dry tunic before motioning for the elf to have a seat on the bed.  “Out of curiosity, Fae, what exactly do your vallaslin mean? ...If you don’t mind my asking.” Another effort to cover his awkward gawking earlier, but Dorian really does want to know.  Afterall, the Imperium didn’t really keep detailed documentation (that was easily accessible, at least) of the cultures for people whom they kept collared and chained...

“Mine, personally?”

“Yes, I suppose.”  Dorian retrieves two bottles of Orlesian red from the back of his armoire - nothing terribly sweet as to cause stomach upset with overindulgence - and a couple glasses and a corkscrew from his desk.  Secretly, he truly hopes he and Felan won’t _have to_ go through both bottles.  But, he still needs to find out what was troubling his friend so.

Felan sighs in relief upon being handed a full glass, and Dorian takes a seat in the rickety old - _only there as “decoration” or a surface to set his books upon_ \- chair across from him in a corner near the bed, gesturing for him to go on.  “Well, my mother had always said I was a mystery to them; called me ‘Athras’ - _one half in shadow._  Her nickname for me,”  Before continuing, he smiles briefly, but then his expression falls to something colder.  “Kept to myself _too_ much, is what my father would tell anyone, though.  And June,” Felan absentmindedly drags his fingers across the lines marking his forehead, “Is still somewhat of a half-unknown to the Dalish.  Histories lost to time and wars, but one association with June remained constant: creation and crafting. My father was glad that in my keeping to myself at a young age, I was usually found trying to  make small bows or shoddy armour pieces.” The laugh that follows is a little sad, a little bitter.

Dark tannins and the scent of plum fill Dorian’s nose as he swirls his glass before taking a long sip.  He ignores Felan’s mostly-empty glass for the moment. “A budding hunter then?”

“Something like that, yes.  At first, I mainly took to leather-work.  But soon enough, hunting trips with my father and sister showed me I had something to learn that would allow me to break away from everything when _I_ wanted.  ...Anyway, I had an elder teach me carving basics, and before I knew it, I was making the _gaudiest,_ most intricate handles and quillons of wood or bone for _my own_ hunting daggers,” Felan chuckles at the memory.  “And later, a pommel and grip I gifted to… a friend, prompted him to suggest the June vallaslin.  He uh, had a variation as well, already.”

There is that sadness again.  Dorian feels intuitively that he must tread lightly.  He rises to grab the wine bottle and refill their glasses.  “And was he as adept at crafting as you were? Your friend?”  Dorian is still absolutely sober enough to not miss the near-imperceptible wince Felan gives at the question; but judging by the glaze in his friend’s eyes, Felan is probably drunk enough not to notice he gave away a tell.

“He… well, not exactly.  I mean, he was, just… in different areas.  He preferred armour crafting for our warriors and helped with building the aravels,”  Felan’s gaze drifts to the floorboards. “Could we… I’d prefer not to speak of him anymore.  I’m sorry.”

Felan stands, only to pace in front of the bed, worrying his bottom lip, slender fingers fidgeting over cracked knuckles.  Dorian had hit a nerve, he just wishes he knew where, so he could fix it. Perhaps Felan just isn’t in a talking mood tonight, whatsoever.  Dorian’s brow furrows in bemused concern for his friend.

“Fae… tell me what is the matter?” Not wanting to push, Dorian keeps his voice low, with no demand.

Walking back to the bed, Felan reaches for his wine glass, downing the contents in one go, and sets it back upon the bedside table.  He seems more steely now, but Dorian watches some argument of conscience war inside Felan’s head for a brief second before the elf pours the rest of the bottle in his glass.  He sits heavily back upon the mattress and leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. Catching Dorian’s eyes on him, he speaks quietly, “Do you think I’m a mistake, Dorian?”

 _Alexius’s words._ Fasta vass…  Dorian immediately moves to seat himself next to Felan.   _“No._ No, I don’t.  And I can assure you no one in this hold does, either,”  Felan opens his mouth in what Dorian can only assume will be some sort of protest, but Dorian cuts him off.   _“No one that matters, Felan._ Get Alexius’s words from your head.  He’s been a fool… allowed himself to be manipulated with false promises all in the name of prolonging Felix’s suffering, and he’ll continue to pay for it the rest of his life.  And I’ll be sure to remind him at least weekly. Perhaps I speak too lightly?” The Tevinter feels a small rage building up in his chest.

“Forget it, it doesn’t matter…” The words are watery, and Felan hangs his head as he brushes off the subject with a hand motioning in the air, then sets down his wine glass after a last, decent gulp.

 _“To me_ it does, actually!  Everything Corypheus and that fucking cult fed to him was lies!  Including _anything_ concerning _you!_ And the longer I am around you, the _truer_ I know that to be! _”_  Dorian doesn’t mean to get so damned passionate over the matter, but Felan is the last true friend he has in this Maker-forsaken world, and he won’t stand to see him broken, physically _or_ emotionally.  “Do you trust me?”

Felan faces Dorian again and nods.  His irises appear more blue upon a backdrop of bloodshot white.  Dorian can feel his heart breaking for the man.

“Alright,” Dorian starts more calmly. “Then trust that you _aren’t_ a mistake.  And whether or not you believe in Andraste, I believe _you_ bearing that anchor wasn’t just grim serendipity, Fae.  It could have been some hapless twit with no more brains than a half-dead nug!”  Dorian chuckles, “Could you imagine? The world be damned! Then again... the poor soul would probably be dead already…”  Dorian goes quiet, thinking he may have stepped in it with that last addition. The usual abyssal depths of his well of words runs dry.

  


******

  


Felan can appreciate the humour with which Dorian is trying to dispel his anxieties and fears, but he didn’t much know how to convey just how torn up inside he feels over everything that has been continually hurled his way throughout his young life.  He sits still, silent until Dorian wraps a warm arm around his shoulders - _tight,_ fingers practically digging into his bicep.  Felan wants to fold himself up against his friend and sob a self-pitying cry into his broad chest.  He should’ve known better: not unlike he’d witnessed with Dorian on occasion, alcohol always made Felan’s depressive state deepen into its own darkness.   Problem is, he doesn’t think he _can_ cry anymore.

Letting himself lean into Dorian, Felan says quietly, “I’ve felt even less-whole than before, ever since the Conclave.”  

Dorian exhales forcefully, and Felan feels him lift his head to tuck his chin over Felan’s crown.  With a self-deprecating laugh, Felan admits aloud, “Perhaps I am attracted to broken things because I'm looking to pick up the pieces and fit them in where I'm missing parts of my own…”

Dorian’s words are a bit muffled against Felan’s hair.  “Kaffas… I’m so sorry, Felan. _I don’t know what to do…”_

An unfamiliar weight of sleepiness has been making itself known to Felan’s body, and he flicks his gaze over towards Dorian’s window.  Snow still pelts the earth. Though the flakes are smaller, they seem more in quantity, occasionally twirling with the dizzying gusts of wind as their dance partner.  No matter how short the walk, Felan loathes the thought, presently. By the Dread Wolf, his clothing had only recently been dried!

Something nags at Felan; he wonders at his reasoning for coming here - well, _to Dorian._ Yes, he wanted to continue to drink his woes away uninterrupted, but… He’d meant to do that up in his tower, hadn’t he?  And _yes,_ he’d allowed himself to be easily talked into coming to Dorian’s room for a spell, but he could beg off his friend’s company, if he wanted.  What _did_ Felan want, _really?_   

“Felan?”

Dorian’s voice was always like a lullaby to Felan’s raw nerves.  Felan sits himself up straight, and asks in an almost meek tone, “...Read to me?”

  


******

  


What Dorian saw following Cullen and Cassandra’s last-ditch, _successful_ attempt at a search and retrieval of the proclaimed Herald of Andraste’s living, breathing form - from what surely should have been an icy burial - was a _fracture._ He and Felan had already formed a close enough bond by then, that Dorian could damn well see the man wasn’t the same after that chaotic attack on the whole of them.  Who could be? But now, _now_ he’s watching a slow tear in Felan open up, akin to the rifts the elf tried so desperately to keep up with closing across the lands.  Dorian is left wondering how long before Felan’s inner demons pour forth from that tear, just to consume him after.

If Felan wanted Dorian to run across the battlements, nude, in knee-deep snow, he would - if it only meant his friend would feel better.   _Well,_ perhaps Dorian is being a bit of an extremist in his thoughts, but the sentiment is all the same.  And so, read to Felan, he will. That is easy. _Enjoyable,_ even.

“Unfortunately, the book we’d been reading is back in the rotunda, of course.  But I’ve got a decent enough collection of books and tomes here, I suppose. Anything you’re of a mood for in particular?”

Felan always got this stupid, adorable, scrunched-up look to his face when he was thinking hard on something, and it always ended with his front teeth latching onto that full bottom lip of his.  Dorian had caught onto it immediately back… er… forward? in that horrendous _almost-future_ at Redcliffe Castle.  And presently, it endeared Felan to him even more.  The elf is doing it now, and Dorian feels a heat rise in his face and turns away.  He slips his arm from Felan’s shoulders and gets up to walk over to a mostly-full bookshelf.

“Mm… Do you have anything on fire magics?”

Dorian spins on his heel, immediately.  Taken aback, he crosses his arms in front of his chest, one hand going up to rub the line of his jaw.  The faintest rasp of stubble catches the pads of his fingertips. _“Fire magics?_  Surely you jest!”

That trademark sly, crooked smile of Felan’s makes an appearance just then.  “What? Can I not be curious?”

“Well, yes.  But you aren’t even a _mage!_  You’ll be bored to tears!”

The fox-like grin widens corner-to-corner, devilishly.  “Didn’t even consider that that may be the point?” Dorian watches as Felan scoots towards the head of the bed, makes himself perfectly comfortable by propping up a pillow, then lies back with his fingers laced behind his head.  Well now he just looks _smug._ The little shit.  “Lull me to sleep, Dorian!  Or,” In an animated way that betrays his earlier mood, Felan quickly leans up onto his elbows and gives Dorian a heated look. _“Perhaps I just enjoy the sound of your voice?”_  Dorian is all too keen on the underlying mocking tone there, despite the cocksure, sultry way in which the suggestion is said.  Even knowing Felan _must_ be taking the piss out of him, Dorian blushes like a schoolboy and turns back to the bookshelf, cursing under his breath.  His eyes quickly scan and roam the shelves until he finds something on the subject of personalising magical glyphs of different elemental sorts.  Not what Dorian’s first choice would have been, but he can’t quite concentrate properly at the moment, nevermind the fact that reading about fucking magic was at the bottom of his list of things he’d ever expect to be reading to _Fae._

The man in question is back to laying down again when Dorian turns to the bed.  “Here we are! _Thermal thaumaturgy_ it is, then!   _You nonsensical, drunk elf.”_

Felan only smiles again.  “It’s not _nonsense.  You_ enjoy it, do you not?”

Tossing the book next to his friend, Dorian walked back to his armoire and grabbed for his favourite heavy surcoat.  The blood red velvet and golden silk lining kept him warm in weather like this; despite the ornamental slits from shoulder to elbow, then elbow to embroidered cuff.  He’d never much had use for a warm robe to wear around his rooms back in Qarinus or Minrathous, but he admired the look of this particular garment, nevertheless. And, it was one of the few articles of clothing he’d owned that he hadn’t hacked to pieces like some monstrous, living experiment from a horror novel, only to stitch it all back together (with a few embellishments here or there) to better suit his tastes.  It made him feel beautiful. And he wants to be beautiful for Felan. Venhedis, he’s preening like lascivious peacock! Well, Dorian thinks, no harm in giving the man something to take his mind off of troubling thoughts, yes?

“I do enjoy it, yes.  It is, after all, my secondary area of expertise.  Though _my_ ‘secondary’ is still well above the likes of what most of your Southern mages here can probably handle,”  Dorian adds a wink for sardonic effect. He motions to Felan with the coat over his arm as he opens a dresser drawer, pulling out a pair of long, black cotton breeches.  “Do you mind?”

“I-uh, no?  Go... right ahead.”  Dorian can practically see every muscle in Felan’s body tense up from across the room.  He begins unbuckling, unhooking, and removing the various bindings and straps from his dark leathers.  Bracer, then sleeve; boots, buckles at his waist; off the belts go… But then Dorian notices… _Felan is staring;_ casually so, but staring nonetheless.  Shall he put on a show? Mm, perhaps not.  All of Dorian’s niggling worries over his friend told him that it would probably be in poor taste to tease the man in light of Felan wrestling with his melancholia this evening.  He peels his leather chausses down his leggings next, and _that_ is when Felan begins looking innocently about the rafters like he was bloody birdwatching.

  


******

  


_Fuck._ Fuck, fuck, fuck, bloody fucking _Void._ So _that’s_ how those came off.  Felan struggles to find some decorative this or that to compliment around Dorian’s room.  But he’s drunk, right? That is as good an excuse as any for his reaction time to be like that of a rotted, dead stump, and not a razor sharp edge, like it usually is.  Even _still,_ he’d been caught staring at his closest friend, and there is no tact in that.  Sloshed or not, Felan should probably apologise, should he not? Maybe?

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have watched you…”   _Creepy!_ Oh, good.  He isn’t mucking this up worse at all.  

But Dorian just lets out a barely stifled chortle at Felan’s expense, and resumes undressing.   _“Inquisitor,_ you mistake me for a prude, I’m afraid.  How I ever gave you _that_ impression, I am really quite unsure.”

Right.  Since Dorian had joined the Inquisition, and a fast-friendship formed (and realisation of similar nocturnal habits), they’d both shared a tent out in the field, on many an occasion.  Walking in on one another in various states of disgruntled, hurried undress or _redress_ was a shared, unextraordinary commonality by now.   _This is different,_ Felan tells himself.  How, he isn’t really sure.  Things certainly seem of a more… _intimate_ setting being in Dorian’s room.   _In his bed._

“Mythal, ma halani…” Felan mutters and averts his gaze a bit more skillfully this time as Dorian removes his leather gambeson.  He doesn’t fully miss the bared skin of a bronzed torso.

“What was that?”

Gritting his teeth a moment, Felan crosses his arms atop his ribcage and burrows his shoulders and back further into the pillow and mattress beneath.  “...Nothing. It’s nothing.”

  


******

  


More comfortable now, Dorian finishes wrapping and tying the sash about his waist and does his markedly best to hold back any sway in his hips while making his way back over to his bed.  Honestly, he’s afraid that he’ll cause Felan to shoot straight through the roof if he seats himself next to him now. Dorian had never known the Inquisitor to be the flighty type, though.  Frighteningly the opposite, actually. He gathers his ankle-length coat up and directs eye-contact at Felan, but there’s no real change in expression, so Dorian climbs in next to him.

Picking up the book he’d “decided on,” Dorian thumbs through it, albeit a bit reluctantly - if he’d wanted to practice his studies he’d still be in the damned library - and finds a section touching on the topic of fire.  

“You’ve many a curiosity to sate tonight it seems, Fae.” Dorian takes one last jab.

Felan merely rolls his eyes with an added, _“Shut it.”_ for good measure before turning onto his side.  Dorian feels their proximity keenly.

On and on, Dorian reads; the only sounds in the room his voice and the occasional _thwip_ of a delicate page turning.  He enjoys the soft must of an old book and the weight of his friend beside him, but that’s about _all_ Dorian is enjoying.  In spite of heavying eyelids - and already heavy intoxication - Fae has somehow remained steadfast in his consciousness.  Personally, Dorian finds this all a proper bore, and wishes the second wine bottle was in reach. It is amusing that Felan had picked a subject as tedious such as this in effort to appease them both.  Perhaps Felan really is interested in how the Eldritch magics work. He is certainly surrounded by enough mages, day in and day out. Dorian wonders briefly, that maybe his friend had a family member who’d been a mage; surely a clansman or two.  He knows well enough how Dalish clans and their mages work from he and Felan’s earliest conversations on the matter.

Dorian senses Felan’s breathing calm to a shallow rise and fall.  In the quiet, he turns to look at the elf, who’s re-adjusting his head upon the pillow, eyes now closed, clasped hands tucked between bent knees.  

“Doze for awhile, if you need to.”  Dorian’s voice is hushed and even. He moves to brush back the windswept tangle of silver-white hair from Felan’s face.  His hair is getting long, almost to his chin now; the sides and back a bit shaggy and in much need of a shave. Somehow, it makes Felan look even younger to Dorian, less severe.  Maker, he _is_ much too young to be going through all of this…  

Pale cerulean eyes, glassy with the pull of sleep, crack open and glance up at Dorian. “Mm… and what about you?   _S’your bed.”_

“That it is.  I’ll be fine. Though I think I’ll trade _this,”_ Dorian holds up the now closed text in his hand. “for something much more interesting.”

A tired little laugh catches in the back of Felan’s throat and he sits up on an elbow to lay flat the pillow he’d been reclined against.   _“Thank you, Dorian.”_ His lopsided grin displays his drunkenness, but his words are sober.

“It was my pleasure.  Though, I don’t think I did much in the way of lifting whatever dark cloud you had shadowing you when you came to me earlier,”  At first, Dorian pivots to get off the bed, but turns back to Felan, wanting to give him a final reassurance. “And Felan, you’re far too hard on yourself.  Since you seem to not want to remind yourself of all the amazing things you have done thus far, _let me:_ the world would be a darker place without you running around saving everyone.  I know lives have been lost, but without you and that mark on your hand, the state of things would be much, much more bleak.  And, who would save hapless, one-eyed farmers’ wayward rams?!” They both laugh at the memory of giving chase to a most stubborn “Lord Woolsley” across what felt like much of the Hinterlands.  “Honestly, Felan, when this is all over, I _promise you, it’ll be worth it in the end._ Remember, a lesser man would have died.   _You_ are _not_ a lesser man - couldn’t be further from that, in my opin-”

Felan’s fingers are at the back of Dorian’s hair, and Dorian… _Dorian lets himself be guided,_ let’s himself lean down into Felan’s kiss; one hand grasping lightly at the elf’s shoulder.  It’s soft, _innocent_ at first.  Dorian exhales heavily through his nose as he pushes into the kiss more ardently when Felan adjusts his mouth on Dorian’s.  Fingers grabbing, fingers raking through his hair, the brush of a straight elven nose against his cheek. With the shift, comes the brief opening of mouths, and Dorian allows his shameful desire for his friend _one small_ _taste_ of a tongue gliding against his own before he gently pushes Felan away.

 _No._ Not this.

Felan looks dazed a second before shock settles over his face.  “You… you should rest, Felan… You need to sleep this off…”

Dorian rises from the bed, not knowing what more to _say_ or _do_ in this situation.  Felan lies back, hand rubbing his forehead before letting it fall dramatically to his side.  He turns his head away from Dorian’s direction slightly. “Ughh…” With that frustrated groan, Felan’s eyes drift shut. “Ir abelas, tel unsulevas… tel un…”  Sudden sleep cuts short what Dorian knows is an apology.

Please don’t remember.  Please, please, _please_ don’t remember, Fae.  

Dorian walks over to his desk, and with a flick of his wrist, the braziers in the room burn a little brighter, a little hotter, and the stubby candles upon his desk ignite themselves. He plops himself in the chair heavily, hands fisting into his hair as he rests on his elbows; pondering what to say to Felan, come morning, if he in fact _does_ remember the kiss.  Dorian half-contemplates looking for a spell to make such a thing happen, but he isn’t of a mind to turn his dear friend into an amnesiac by accident.  Dorian looks back at the sleeping form in his bed and sighs. “Nocti benefaria…”

  


******

  


Sometime (but unfortunately, not too much time) after sunrise, Felan wakes with sun rays in his eyes, the beginnings of a migraine, and a full bladder.  There is also the small, ten seconds of groggy panic in figuring out and remembering where he is, exactly. He also realises he’s pleasantly warm, despite the tips of dripping icicles he can just barely see bordering the top of Dorian’s window.  Felan shifts the blanket of soft pelts - funny, he doesn’t recall that even being out on the bed last night - off as he rises on wobbly legs.

Across the room, Dorian sits in a cushiony, curved-back chair in front of his desk, feet propped up on a mismatching ottoman that had definitely seen better days.  Across his stomach lay a large, open book. The man is fast asleep. Felan smiles at the sight, but realises that the chair housing the slumbering mage is _also_ the chair Dorian had slung Felan’s clothing to dry.  

Felan creeps over, like a shadow, and comes to the conclusion that there is definitely no way he’ll be able to wrestle his tunic free from under Dorian’s head without waking him in the process.  Instead, he gently nudges at Dorian’s shoulder until he stirs awake.

“I’ve been a dreadful friend,”  At this, Dorian suddenly drops his legs from the ottoman and looks up at Felan with a strange, startled, yet pained expression.  It’s almost questioning. “I’ve kicked you out of your own bed.”

Relief seems to flood Dorian as the hands that were just clutching the armrests relax.  Odd, that. “Oh, no… it’s fine. Really.”

“Well, let me at least apologise for being terrible company, then.  How long have you been sat here?”

Dorian smooths his hair and surcoat, then clears his throat as he sets his book on his desk.  “Is it morning?” Felan nods, smirking. “I-I don’t know. Maybe a few hours or so? Though I don’t believe I’ve been asleep long,”  He looks back up at Felan, concern furrowing his brow. “How do you feel?”

Felan grimaces through his answer.  “Like I drank a lot?”

“Right.   _I don’t doubt it.”_

“Actually, I should probably get back to my own chambers now.  Catch a couple more hours of sleep before my dear advisors want to meet and ask me about my stupidity.”  Felan raises his wounded arm. “I uh, just need to change into my things…”

Dorian turns to look at the clothing on the back of the chair, then pulls one of Felan’s gloves from where it had fallen behind his back.  “Of course.” He hands Felan the glove as he stands. Something seems off… _Dorian_ seems off - cold even.  Perhaps he’s just tired, Felan assumes.

Felan lays his things on the bed, suddenly realising he’s one accessory short.  “Dor, have you seen my scarf? Red?”

“No, I don’t believe you were wearing one last night, actually.”

“Shit.”  Walking over to his thoroughly warmed socks and boots, Felan quickly pulls them on, fumbling with his laces as his fingers try to catch up with the speed of his brain.

“Everything alright?”

“Yes, nevermind.”  

“You can borrow it for now, I don’t mind,” Dorian nods in Felan’s direction as he scrambles with his last boot.  “The tunic, I mean. Make your getaway all that much quicker. Especially if you want to miss your advisors on your way to your tower.  I won’t miss it. I’ll get it back from you another time, I’m sure.”

Felan feels more relief at the smirk Dorian gives him than the suggestion.  He sighs, _“Thank you.”_ and throws his vest over the almost-too-big shirt, balling his own tunic under his arm.

Dorian chuckles, “Think nothing of it.  Do be careful you don’t slip and fall on your arse in all your rushing, though, hm?  Not sure the snow has been cleared, yet. I can melt you a path, if you’d like?” There was still something strange about Dorian’s demeanor.  Felan couldn’t grasp exactly what it was, though.

“I appreciate the thought, but no, that won’t be necessary.  Are you alright, Dorian?” Felan asks as he pulls on his gloves in front of the door.

“Me?  Perfectly fine.  A bit tired, perhaps.”

Felan eyes him suspiciously.   _“Alright…_ Get some rest, then, will you?”

“Speak for yourself!  But yes, I will. _And you as well, Felan.”_

“Thank you again, Dorian.  I… don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Dorian smiles a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.  “Of course. What are friends for, after all?”

Felan ambushes him with a quick, but tight hug, then beats a hasty retreat out the door - taking large, crunching, _careful_ steps through the snow - hoping not to run into _Cullen_ or anyone else on his way to the security of his own room.

  
  
  


**End Pt. I**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * “Mythal, ma halani…” = Mythal, help me...  
> ** “Ir abelas, tel unsulevas…" = I'm sorry, I didn't mean to/didn't intend to...  
> *** “Nocti benefaria…” = my own made up Tevene meant to be something akin to a poetic "goodnight"
> 
>  Lyrics in summary from "Broken" by Ours.
> 
> And that's the end of Part One in this particular piece! As ideas for backstories or little tales before, or even within, Firebreather flesh themselves out in my head, I'm going to add them here. I'd just really wanted to get these headcanons of mine written and out there before continuing with what I have planned for Firebreather to save that fic from too much exposition. 
> 
> Despite the heavy angst, I hope readers have enjoyed this coup d'oeil (glimpse) into my Inquisitor's universe! 
> 
> I know Cullen/Male Lavellan isn't everyone's cup of tea (it isn't even something I actively ship), but it's what I've imagined as a first, albeit brief, relationship for Felan from day one. And of course, Dorian has to swoop in! Sort of ;) If you haven't yet read Firebreather, please do<3 That fic is allll Pavellan, my loves! 
> 
> Kudos & comments much appreciated!
> 
> Find me on tumblr @thefire-in-the-nightsky or on twitter @nauka_o_ogniuXV


	4. Part II: The Two of Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"So my half is waiting,  
>  Filed to a pulp  
> Used insomnia's been cleansing with floods  
> I got a pain inside that'll rip through the very fabric of time  
> 'Cause I've been with you before  
> God gave me sin  
> I've got to get born  
> Just so you know,  
> There's too many reasons_
> 
> _...And I'm nowhere near the place  
>  You sent me here to breathe  
> But I'm drawing closer to the present  
> And I'll find a space with no memories  
> I've got a second chance to inhabit the living"_
> 
> -The Mars Volta, _"Conjugal Burns"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings for very vague implications of dubious consent in reference to Aridhel and his past dealings with humans, as well as on his journey to Skyhold. This is mentioned briefly through Cole in a cryptic manner, so it's not at all explicit and not focused on. I need to say that Aridhel sees himself (and Dalish elves in general) as better than humans, and therefore believes _he_ has used humans to get what _he_ wants, it doesn't matter if this is actually true or not, in reality. His ego and hatred/racism will not allow him to ever feel like the one being used. This is why I say "dubious consent."
> 
> Also, this does take place after the end of Ch. 11 of Firebreather, so it won't make sense if you haven't yet read that!

 

 

He’s shivering, close to it anyway.

The ill-fitting tunic Aridhel was apparently provided with after a healer saw to his old wound is hardly any barrier against the cold mountain air that whips into this… cave?  He isn’t entirely sure where this prison he’s trapped in is located within the hold. The shem-brute standing watch outside his cell had unfortunately knocked him unconscious and dragged him away here before he’d woken, of course.   _ Of course.   _

Aridhel preferred the presence of the red-haired woman.  She was  _ quiet  _ when she spoke to him, and watched him… differently than the other two humans.  The other woman,  _ Cassandra,  _ he’d heard the blond  _ ass _ call her, had left along with the redhead not long ago, whispers trailing them on the cold, damp air.

The “commander” stands silent for now, however; profile and tangle of a dark fur mantle peeking just enough into view passed the stone doorway of Aridhel’s cell.   Over and over, Aridhel scuffs the heel of one of his boots (he’d lucked out greatly that the man he’d stolen them from on his travels was around his size and build) into the lip of an uneven stone block in the floor.  Every time he feels the commander side-eye him, he must hold back a self-satisfied grin. He silently  _ dares  _ the human to open his mouth to tell him to stop - his annoyance clear in the way faint little huffs of steam leave his mouth if Ari gives a particularly good kick to the stone.

Luckily, his taunts are keeping his blood flowing, warming him slightly.   _ Enough. _

“I know what you’re trying to do,” the man says.

“Oh?  What is it that I’m doing?”

“Just be still,  _ would you?”   _ The commander’s tone is almost,  _ almost  _ pleading and Aridhel watches as a hand invades his dark silhouette - seemingly going to rub his brow.  So he  _ is  _ annoying the man, after all.  

Aridhel smiles to himself, then shifts from his seated position on the floor to lie on his back, propping his booted feet on the wall, and - ah,  _ there -  _ another unruly stone block.  He sits up a moment, grabbing the straw pillow from the cot and lays it beneath his head.  His hands settle over his ribcage, as he gets as comfortable as he can.

With a quick glance to the human, he drags the sole of his boot down the wall hard into the jutting stone.

“Does your recalcitrance have a  _ point  _ beyond immature, petty annoyance?!” snaps the commander.  He looms in front of Aridhel’s cell door now. “Maker's breath…”

“I'm sure you have more pressing matters to attend to,  _ Commander.   _ You could leave, could you not?  Or do you truly perceive me a threat behind these bars?”

Silence.

The man's attention snaps to his left.  “Cole? I… I'd prefer you not be down here.”

A boy - another shem, and perhaps no older than eighteen, appears beside the commander.  His drooping, overly wide-brimmed hat and patchwork leathers spark a bemused curiosity in Ari, as does his hesitant behaviour.  

“I came to help.  His hurt,” the boy gestures down at Aridhel on the floor.  The torchlight helps cast an almost black shadow across his face with the aid of his headwear now.  “it screams at me. So loud, drowning out the burn in his muscles, hotter than the heat of a fever.”  He looks down at Aridhel. “It pushed you here, but you don’t know why.”

_ “Who are you?”  _ Aridhel rises onto his elbows.  What is this nonsense about pain this boy spouts at him?

“Cullen hurt you, but he’s sorry.  You hurt him, he did what he had to.  Your anger towards Felan worries him, scares him.  Bright, burning, it suffocates like smoke. Warming, warning.  Nothing to feed the fire here so you snuff out another’s spark before it catches.”

Aridhel doesn’t know what riddled mess the boy is speaking of, but it makes him uncomfortable, nonetheless.  The commander  _ (Cullen,  _ apparently) shifts next to the strange boy.

“Cole… he uh, he can sense pain,  _ distress,  _ in people.”

Aridhel narrows his eyes up at Commander Cullen.  “Yes, I can see that much is clear! Or so he says... What did Felan tell you?!” He looks to Cole.

But the man answers before the boy can explain himself.  “He doesn’t need to ah, he can  _ feel it,  _ read it from people.  He means well, but I’ll make him go.”

_ “No.   _ Let’s see what you think you know of me, boy.” Aridhel glares at him through the darkness of his stone room.

Commander Cullen moves away and pulls a wooden chair into view.  Aridhel hears it groan from the armoured weight of the human as he takes a seat.  He looks weary, and Aridhel can’t understand why the man is still here. His presence is added sandpaper to Ari’s nerves.

Aridhel lies back against the flattened pillow, bringing his knees up.  The slight unease of this situation doesn’t distract him from the cold. Stones beneath his back dig painfully into his still-tender flesh; strains in his muscles lingering in their protest from his most recent journey from Jader.

Cole takes half a step forward and Aridhel can still barely make out his face.  It chills him further, not being able to make eye contact with him.

“Felan thinks I may not be able to help.   _ You  _ used to be part of his hurt.  Two ends of a thread, tangled in knots, but not bound.  I remember when he thought of you. He saw you as something better than him...  Snow on a mountain peak that glows in the sun. I can’t reach that far. Always wondering.  Does he forgive me for leaving? Blue and silver falling away. A wolf and its moon. Lost.”

_ That  _ sends Aridhel upright in a second.  He wobbles on unsteady legs to stand.  “He told you these things, then?! Felan, he…”  Confusion and fear and shame war inside Aridhel.  Cole just shakes his head.

“He told me, but not with words.  It’s like Cullen said: The hurt, it speaks to me.  And I try to fix it. Your hurt is like a pot, boiling over.  Simmering over the edges. Soon, there will be nothing left. Empty.”

The boy’s explanation makes Ari’s skin prick with more fear.  His ears twitch back and his muscles tense and coil as if readying for a fight he is not armed for.  “What  _ are you?!   _ You read my mind, then?  Are you a demon?” He looks frantically towards Cullen.  “Is  _ this  _ how your Inquisition tortures its prisoners, shemlen?!”

“What?  Maker, no!  No, admittedly, I was more than wary of him at first, as well.  But Cole is no demon. We um, have an elven apostate, Solas, with us who has assured and explained that Cole is… a spirit of Compassion.  He has proven loyal to the Inquisition and its cause. We have not yet been given reason to doubt him.” Cullen’s soft-spoken words are the calmest Aridhel has heard the man.  And it  _ shouldn’t  _ ease Aridhel’s mind.   _ It shouldn’t.   _

“You trust…”  _ It,  _ is what Aridhel wants to say.  “him, then?” A spirit taking the form of a teenage human is more unnerving than a bright wisp of a humanoid shape he is used to seeing.

Cullen nods.  “I will admit, he has helped  _ me _ at times…”

Aridhel takes a tentative step forward, the line of his body still tense, though he and the spirit are separated by rough stone and iron.  “I-I don’t need help.  _ There is nothing to fix!”   _ A macabre curiosity prevents Ari from telling the commander to make this… spirit - this boy,  _ leave. _

Cole walks closer, and now Aridhel has a better view of his melancholic visage.  “I just want to help! If I make it worse, if I mess it up, you’ll forget. And I’ll go.”

Aridhel doesn’t want to think about the meaning behind  _ that  _ statement.  “How? How are you supposed to help me??”

“Others making him happy, making him stay when I couldn’t.  Rage churning in my gut like the sea that knows no rest. Always awake, it drifts me towards him.  Dark and alone, surrounded by too many in the belly of a ship. Eyes on ink, on ears. Pretend I’m not strong.  Will they throw me over if I fight? I pray he isn’t happy to see me.”

_ “Fenedhis…”  _ Aridhel looks away, hands balling into fists.   _ He knows.  He sees. _

“You think if he hates you, you’ll deserve it.  Hate makes everything easier. It’s why you hold onto it like a weapon.  But hate hurts. Cold and cunning. Hurt before they hurt me. Hiding behind ice to block out the warmth.”

Aridhel doesn’t look, but he  _ hears  _ Commander Cullen’s uncomfortable shift in his chair.  He listens to the cold scrape of metal against wood, letting it ground him as he fights back the sting of angry tears.

“Go on then!  What else is it you hear?”  He  _ hates  _ the strain in his voice.  All of his scowling makes the bruises and scant swelling around his eye throb anew.  Aridhel winces, immediately cursing himself under his breath.

Cullen clears his throat, catching Aridhel’s attention.  The man is rubbing his palms together slowly, with a knit of worry between his brows as he looks up at Ari.  “Look, Master Aridhel…  _ do you _ want me to make him leave?  Are you certain this is alright?”  In a daze, Aridhel watches the steam curl from beneath the man’s scarred upper lip -  _ how had he missed that mark before? -  _ and realises he has not once seen the same evidence of warm breath mingling with chilled air from the boy-like spirit.

“I’m alright.  Go on,” Aridhel answers finally.  Quietly. He wants  _ quiet,  _ but he wants answers more.

Cole continues with a slight, worried frown upon his face.  “A blade of blame. Guilt like a guillotine. Why did I survive?  It should have been me. Why save the one who should have done more?  Enduring, repentant. No vial can contain you. One of three, separated in prevention.  Unbound, but caged, I must not follow. Broke the chain, but still leashed by its song. Can’t put a collar on a Master.  An extra sovereign if I let them use one. No brand, no clan, no Order. Safe, but don’t belong. Now two of three, three yourselves, asunder.  Caged, but still meddling, you will not goad me. Truth will hold you, or it is no longer true.” Cole’s hands go to the side of his face as he shakes his head, distraught.  “No, no! That isn’t right!”

“Wait, what are you saying?”  Cullen stands suddenly, concern thick in his voice, and walks over to Cole.  Aridhel feels like he’s taken a knife to his gut.

“No…  _ no!   _ Your thoughts, both of you… they’re all mixed up!  I can’t tell who is who and what is right. You’re both too loud now, echoes overlapping.  You both carry the same hurt from a different blade. You’re alive, and that should be enough, but why isn’t it?  Using shields that protect, until it’s too much. Blocking, blotting out the sun until you’re only shadow. Guarding, unguarded.  Didn’t protect them like I vowed. Smiting with silence. Creating danger where there is none. Hurt them before they hurt me.”

Nothing but the wind and a couple muffled coughs from another prisoner down the way fill the uncomfortable void around them.  Aridhel feels like he’s been flayed raw, like his insides have been rearranged the wrong way. Everything is  _ uncomfortable.   _ It hurts like an inner pain that he’s never known.  More than the losses he’s experienced, old and new; more than his worst injuries.  It is the pain he’s been seeking for far too long. 

He wants it fucking lanced from him so he can bleed out the  _ why. _

Cullen’s bare hand white-knuckles a cell bar.  Aridhel blinks in confusion and realises he’d made his way to the door as well.  When had that happened?

Aridhel watches the man mouth “not here” to Cole and he knows then that what the spirit-boy was speaking of wasn’t just for  _ him.   _ He should take pleasure in this shemlen’s apparent grief, but it tastes stale in his mouth.  Bitter like over-steeped tea.

“Is that all, spirit?” Aridhel asks, voice wavering.  “That is how you shall help us? By reaching in and baring hidden truths you find?”

Truths.   _ Weaknesses.   _

“I know how to help you both now.”  The boy sounds more hopeful than he had previously.  His downcast eyes leave the ground and he gently grabs the bars of Aridhel’s cell.  Cullen lets go and turns his back on Aridhel, leaning against the bars as he runs a hand through his wavy golden hair.  “The strength that slips through their fingers, like water or sand… You catch it for them and direct it back. You both make people feel more powerful, better than their armour.  Proud, watching, protecting. Stronger than you think when you push with a purpose. The shadow lost his, the lion thinks he isn’t good enough for it. Still whole where something is missing.  It used to fit, but it was the wrong piece.” 

The commander sighs, tipping his head back against the bars.  “Cole… are you ever wrong?”

“You’re both wrong.  You and  _ him,  _ warriors that can both keep pushing, keep moving onward.  But you hold yourselves back. Heal, let go of the hurt you hold so tightly.  I hear the things you’re not saying. Why do you want to leave, Cullen?” Cole gestures towards Aridhel suddenly.  “He knows no one will trust him, they’ll fear him, yet he doesn’t want to go. If you leave, the pain and the past win.”

Leave?  That catches Aridhel’s attention passed the emotions he’s feeling.  He wonders if the shemlen means to leave the Inquisition?  _ Curious.   _

“What are you running from, mm Commander?” Aridhel hums the question near the man’s ear, nearly startling him.  He turns to face Aridhel with a half-hearted scowl etched in his features.

“It is none of your business.  We’re done here, Cole. I apologise, but I think you should go…”

Cole drifts away from the bars.  “You are not bad people, not like you think.  I would know it, hear it. Not bad, just broken - like beach glass.  Rough waters can polish away the sharp edges. Still beautiful and worth something to someone when they find it.”

The spirit-boy glances over at Cullen, seemingly studying him for a moment, then begins to walk away.  Before he clears Aridhel’s cell, they lock eyes. Cole’s features soften into a small smile and he tells Ari, “That’s what your eyes remind him of.  Like the green shard he found in the lake when he was a boy. He gave it to his little sister when he left.”

And then the boy is  _ gone.   _

Aridhel ignores the chill that runs through him in favour for the heat that creeps into the tips of his ears.  He all but throws himself back down onto the ground and slumps against the wall, facing Cullen’s towering form outside the door.

He says the first churlish thing that comes to mind, though it isn’t much.  “I  _ don’t  _ want to stay here, by the way,  _ Commander. _  Not in this prison, not in this hold.  That…  _ whatever he was,  _ was lying.”

A soft chortle comes from the man before him as he turns and walks out of view.  He returns, holding his discarded vambrace and blood-stained glove. Cullen sighs in something resembling relief and takes a seat in the rickety wooden chair again.

“Cole may say many things, some odd, some confusing.  But he does not  _ ever  _ lie,” he says while strapping the vambrace around the glove he’s just put on.  “Also, no need to be so formal with me.  _ Cullen  _ is sufficient, as you have no ties with us.  Nor do you seem intent on having any.”

This  _ Cullen  _ would be correct.  “You still refer to me as ‘Master Aridhel,’ but you have no ties to  _ my  _ people.  Though I suppose, I do not either…” Aridhel trails off.  

“I was only trying to be respectful.  But I’ll desist if it pleases you.”

Ari’s eyes flick to the pin-pricks of red seeping from beneath the human’s bandage around his arm, and the wound at his jaw he’d inflicted upon him.  “Do you always extend respect to those who try to kill you?”

Another little amused laugh from Cullen.  “If you intended to kill me, I think you would have tried harder; half-dead or no.  I’ve never fought with anyone like you. You… surprised me.”

Shifting around uncomfortably, Aridhel tries to relish in the way the cold stone at his back eases his tired muscles, and not the way it makes gooseflesh rise along his skin.  The almost-compliment from the shem makes him feel… odd. He doesn’t want to thank him. Aridhel exhales through his nose in frustration, fidgeting with the ratty leather ties of his trousers.  “I think I need to speak to Felan.”

Cullen rises from his chair quicker than Ari anticipated.  “I’ll locate him. I uh… am afraid we cannot let you out of your cell when you speak with him again…”

“No, I would think not… I understand.”

“And I’ll um, speak to one of our runners about fetching you a blanket.”

Aridhel’s brows furrow as he looks up at the man, but he schools his features.  “Ma serannas… ah, thank you.”

“I don’t know if it’s a Dalish thing, but perhaps it would also benefit you to  _ not  _ sit on the cold ground?”  There is a smirk hiding away in the line of Cullen’s mouth as he turns away.

As the commander’s footsteps echo away Aridhel laughs softly, quietly, and decides to remain where he is.

He doesn’t know why he hopes it is  _ that  _ particular human who brings him the blanket... and  _ not _ some Inquisition runner.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, feedback, and kudos are welcome and much adored!<3
> 
> And thank you to all who have kept up with this series as a whole!!


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